


Poison Me

by TheDemonLedger



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Drug Addiction, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Flashbacks, Forced Prostitution, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hunger Games, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mild Sexual Content, Murder, POV First Person, POV Haymitch Abernathy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Self-Hatred, The Arena, Underage Drinking, Victory Tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-12 12:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDemonLedger/pseuds/TheDemonLedger
Summary: It's been six months since Haymitch Abernathy entered the arena with 48 other tributes. In those six months, he has lost everything, including his will to live. Now, it was just a matter of surviving. With the Victory Tour pressing memories of his time in the Games upon him, he must relive everything he did to get out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All rights reserved to Suzanne Collins and any other owners of the Hunger Games. I do not own any of the copy-written material contained within this story. Please note that this story contains some graphic themes that may not be suitable for all audiences. Tags as listed.

It has been six months.

It has been six months, and yet I still can feel the blood; sticky, hot, wet; it coats my bare hands, it drips soundlessly from the unstaunchable wounds. It has been six months, and I can still hear the cannon boom. And every night, I still watch my best friend die. Her blood oozes, turns into the ash that rains like snow, that covers me, turns into blood dripping off the axe that buries deep into Diamonds thick skull; some nights it my family, though, which haunt me worst of all. I shiver through the cold, pushing my hands deeper into my pockets as I trudge through the snow that piles insurmountably around me, yet continues to drop in thick flurries from the sky. The white powder is untouched here, in the cemetery and for the first time I realize it’s because only Merchant class, or someone like myself, can afford to bury people here. 

I break through the sea of unencountered snow, feeling out of place. My shoes pinch my feet, having not yet worn them enough to break them in. The coat that hangs off my emaciated frame is too nice for Twelve, wool exterior and fur lined; rabbit or mink. Someone told me once. I don’t remember. I turn the knife I refuse to drop over and over in my pocket, sharp blade scratching the silky insides. 

Their graves are made of a white stone, which is dull in comparison to the white that surrounds them. On one, two names; on the other, one. Her family never forgave me. 

After their deaths, nothing felt real; like I would awake one morning and I wouldn’t live in the vacant village, heart pounding from nightmares so real I felt like I was there, in the Arena all over again. But I wasn’t, and it wasn’t a dream. I’d wake up in the same musty house, in the same too big bed; vacant. Hollow. Alone. It was exactly what the Capitol, and above all, Snow, had wanted for me, after all. Isolation.

My family was gone, my love was gone. Murdered for my insubordination. I brush a gloved hand over their graves, side-by-side in the barren yard. Snow falls off in sheets, it’s icy tendrils laying over their still months fresh mounds. I kneel before them, not saying anything, but wishing in my heart that I had the words to. I can feel the corners of my eyes begin to sting with tears, but crying isn’t an option. Not with the Tour beginning in just over an hour and my prep team and escort arriving so soon.

“Mitch,” I recognize the voice but still start, hand going to my pocket. “Hey, hey. It’s just me.” James Everdeen lays a hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see brown leather and then his deep grey eyes boring into mine. 

“Fuck, James.” I say, standing to face my long-time friend. He looked different, somehow, in between saying goodbye to him before the Quell and coming back a man. Older, rougher perhaps. He and Maggie Neal, Maysilee’s best friend, had gotten married, of course. Their house was deep in the Seam, close to the Meadow, but closer to the fence where James entered to hunt. Farther than ever from my home in the Village. 

“Didn’t expect to see you out before the Tour.” he mutters. There’s a moment of awkward silence before he pulls me into a strong hug. I clap him on the back before pulling away to face the graves again. “So, today’s the day.” 

“Yeah.” I reply, voice low. 

“Maggie and I… we wanted to see you off. Are we on the list?” he pushes back from me, scanning the surrounding area with hunter's eyes.

“Yeah.” I repeat. “‘Course.” I turn away from him, from the graves. From everything. “I gotta get back home.” 

I don’t hear his reply; I leave before he can protest, footsteps lunging hard through the snow. I feel further from him than ever before. 

“Oh! Darling, look at you. You’re so skinny.” says Veridia, gripping me by the arm. She sidles past me and into my home. I watch her flutter about listlessly as my stylist and prep team come streaming in. “And this house! Oh, how quaint.” I scoff slightly, feeling ill-at-ease as Digit scowls at me. 

“What?” I spit.

“Why are you so thin, Haymitch?” she cocks her head to the side before reaching forward suddenly; I tense up as she gently tugs on the brittle ends of my hair. “Did you do something to your hair?” 

“It grew out, I s’pose.” I reply, drawing away. She humphs, and the next hour of primping and prodding rushes by in a frenzy of furs and powders. Eventually I’m standing at the train station after a rushed interview on my “talent” for carving, which isn’t as much of a talent as it is a way to keep myself from remembering. I smile to the cameras, trying to look tall and less bleak, but feeling dead inside. I spot Maggie and James across the way, and they rush over to me just before I’m supposed to board; my smile grows strong and true, and as lonely and depressed as I am, I truly do miss my friends. 

“We’ll see you in two weeks, Mitch.” whispers Maggie, clutching my hand tightly. Her bright eyes buzz with unsaid words. James leans in to hug me, hands patting my back gently. 

“Try and keep sane.” he whispers, and I laugh as if he’s said something funny. 

“Sure, sure.” I board the train, not looking at anything, trying my hardest not to even look at the cameras. The train doors shut behind me, my prep team runs wildly about, preparing things as they should. I sit myself in a velvet chair in the bar car, the only quiet place on the train. There's no one to talk to his time; it’s so hushed in this room, only the whir of the train, the chug of the wheels, and the clink of glass bottles against each other. I feel out of place here, even now in my Capitol clothing, at my most attractive.  _ Beauty base zero, and build up from there!!  _ The voice of Miriam, the calmest and quietest of my prep team, still rings in my ear. Everything feels warped, as if tainted by the lives of fifty people. 

I shudder and close my eyes for a moment, concentrating on the rhythmic rocking of the train. 

* * *

[Six months ago]

“Abernathy, hey.” says a small voice in my ear. This voice is accompanied by a poke in the arm from a thin finger. I look up to see a shock of blonde hair and blue eyes leaning over me in my hair, where I sit, unmoving, in the bar car. I hadn’t registered the feeling of falling asleep, but night looms outside, contrasting sharply to the white lights of the train. I squint against it, blinking sleep from my eyes.

“What?” I ask, voice barely audible. I’m still shaking from the Reaping. Maysilee, the girl - woman - standing over me, is the eldest of our group, having turned eighteen in late May, only two months prior to this sticky July. I, myself, was on the verge of seventeen, Annabelle Whitaker just thirteen, with Robert Young being, almost ironically, only just twelve within the past week. She stands back, a vision encompassing the fine life of a Merchant girl, hands plastered to her hips in dismay of my antisocial tendencies.  Well, I’m not here to make friends.  We were the only district left mentorless, the only Victor from 12 dying a few years before the Quell. This Quell. Our Quell. 

“Well?” she says, as if I'm supposed to be aware of her intentions. There’s a pause, pregnant with awkward silence, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. 

“Yeah?” I reply after the moment had stretched too long. 

“Are we gonna drink in here? Or are you gonna sit here and sulk like you do at school.” she laughs humorlessly, a sharp chuckle accompanied by a smirk that cuts me wrong.

“Are… are we allowed to drink?” I ask feebly, looking towards the stoic man standing behind the bar. 

“We’re being shipped off to die for a game show, Little Mitchie, I think we can do whatever we damned well please.” 

* * *

My breath hitches at the memory; Maysilee may have played up the good and pure side of her prosperous childhood, but her wild streak was vivid and more than true around me. I open my eyes, training them on the Avox who stands just behind the bar. He’s different somehow, the smirk on his face less pronounced, the eyes more forgiving.

“Can I get somethin’?” I ask, rising. The man gestures almost sarcastically to the drink filled bottles behind him, scorching me with a tremulous look. “Yeah, yeah, I see ‘em. Gimme the strongest shit you got.” He looks at me for a moment; eyes narrowing, as if sizing me up; his violet hair is striking against overly pronounced cheekbones and light yellow eyes. He pauses before reaching beneath the bar, pulling out an intricately decorated flask, and shoots me a wink as he passes it over the solid wood. I steel myself for the harsh burn of the first sip, but find the cool liquor sliding down my throat easily, leaving a warm trail all the way to my stomach. 

“Thanks,” I mutter, moving away. I can’t sit here anymore; not with the memory of her first words to me plowing through my head. My fingers trace the delicate pattern etched into the silver front of the flask as I find my way to my compartment. It’s also different somehow; I assume now that it will be every time I ride the train, Capitol fashion not stopping at the overdone clothes of my escort and prep-team. I wonder briefly when dinner will be, then sink onto the lush and large bed. My hands spread over the blanket, which is thick with some sort of downy feather, and decorated with intricate patterns that form some sort of flower. Too exhausted to pay attention, I toe my shoes off and slip under the blanket fully dressed, my eyes heavy from drink sliding shut without thought.

* * *

 

[Six months ago]

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I count the blasts, my hand tucked tightly into Maysilee’s as we crouch in the thick and tall grass. Robert and Annabelle sit a few feet away, sniveling. We’d known the Twelve had never come away from a bloodbath victorious, had run so far, so fast, and my chest ached. I was still tired and dizzy from lack of sleep, having tossed and turned in my bed all the night before until I’d drunk enough to make myself pass out; my hangover was a glorious reminder of that. Throbbing head, squinting eyes, the whole lot; Maysilee gave me a simpering look, one of pity but also of empathy. She was suffering from the same affliction. 

“That’s sixteen,” I say quietly to the rest a moment after the cannon blasts had stopped. 

“Who do you think is still out there?” whispers Robert, his voice grave and gravelly. 

“Definitely the Careers,” replies Maysilee, squeezing my hand before letting it drop from her grasp. 

“You think it’s safe to go to the Cornucopia yet?” Robert asks, moving closer.

“No,” says Maysilee with that same bitter laugh I’d heard countless times on the train. “Best bet, we wait a day and then scope it out; Careers should have all the need before they have to search out food and water.” 

“What makes you think there won’t be food and water in there?” I reply with a snarl. 

“With forty-eight of us?” she sniggers again. “Fat chance Gamemakers would let anyone stay at the horn too long.” Maysilee scoffs. “C’mon, let’s get to the woods. It’ll be safer there.” 

We move slowly, bent double to keep hidden by shoulder high grass. I can hear Annabelle’s short breathing to prevent sobs from wracking her body. It grates on my nerves; I wish she’d just accept her fate already, as I had. Being Reaped second, after Robert’s name had been called and we all still stood with bated breath, hurt, yes. In any regular Hunger Games, we would’ve stood silent in the crowd, I would’ve gone home to my mother and Evie. James and Maggie would watch with hand clutched tight until the fateful moment their best friends death arrived. But instead I walk in a crouch behind Maysilee, eyes on the wide open space between the grass and the forest. 

“Wait.” says Maysilee, holding up a hand. I can tell she’s thinking, can practically see the gears grinding in her head. She’s scanning the forest, head shifting back and forth before she turns to me with wide, scared eyes. “Look. I aced that damned fauna test, and for good reason apparently. Maggie is my best friend, and… well, she practically runs that apothecary with her mom and James, right,” she pauses to look at me for a moment, and I understand where this is going, “so I fucking better know a hell of a lot about the forest, the woods, and all that stupid plant shit.” her voice lowers as she scans the children behind us. “Don’t trust anything you see in there. Everything - and I mean everything - will either kill or cripple you. Plants, animals, whatever.” I nod. “Did you guys hear what I said?”

I look back to the smaller members of our group to watch them shake their heads. 

“Just be careful.” says Maysilee through tight lips. “Very careful.”

* * *

 

I wake with a start at a quick trio of raps on my door. “Haymitch! Get up!” comes the shrill voice of my escort.  _ No longer my escort, my companion.  _ “We let you sleep through dinner, but now it’s time to eat. We’re pulling into Eleven AT eleven,” her chiming giggle rings through the steel of my door, “and you need to look your best.”  _ As if that matters.  _ I have to look my best for the families of dead children, one of which I’d murdered; had cut her down in cold blood, without mercy. I rise from my bed, feeling the rain move to and fro as we hurtle down the track. I pay no mind to the state of my room, knowing an Avox would clean it while I am absent from it. I shed my clothing, leaving a trail all the way to the shower, where I step in while scratching my slightly grubby skin. I push the door to the shower open; it’s pearly white tiled this time, and the buttons flash. I punch a carefully pathed pattern, water perfectly warm and soap lathered just enough. I scrub with a bristle brush until my skin is raw under it, and step out; my yell at the sight of the prep team standing before me echos through the room. Their grins widen at the sight of me stark naked. 

“Beautiful.” whispers Ophelia, eyes round. 

“As always,” whispers Hammy.

I cover myself with a towel despite their protests, and exit the confined quarters of the bathroom to the relative safety of my bedroom. 

“Can you guys ease up on the whole… naked surprise shtick?” I ask, reaching for the flask I’d left beside my bed. “It was funny the first time, but not so much anymore.” I watch them nod, these three Capitolites so pea-brained I could use tiny words and still confuse them. I hold the towel at my waist tighter as they grin. 

“Well?” says Miriam, a pinkish woman with gold hair and very small hands. The word brings me back, yet again, to memories of Maysilee and our first exchange, and I want to slap Miriam across the face. 

“Well, what?” I return, fist clutching tighter still to repress my want to scream at the whole lot of frivolous sissies. 

“Well, let’s get you ready!” Hammy practically squeals, his bronzed skin glittering in the false light. 

“Right.”  _ Ready.  _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch remembers the Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter in particular is set during The Games themselves. The beginning bit is set in the present, but the rest is the past (as of six months before this fic starts).

I sit at the small, round table, surrounded by the wealthy community of Eleven, which seems to be made up of even less than that of Twelve. The mayor, his wife, and their daughter stare me down with the same round, brown eyes and out-of-place smiles; I feel like I should say something - anything - after the stumbling, bumbling mess I made of myself on the stage, not daring to look up from my notes, to see the four faces of the children who died. But I don’t. We eat our salad in silence. Even Verida, usually upbeat and pert, never  _ not _ talking, seems to take the silence in stride and chews her slightly wilted salad. It’s all I can do not to scream. The thought of sitting here with the same people who have so little care and so much disregard for the state of their District fills me with such contempt, such rage. My blood boils as I chew and chew and chew the same bitter piece of spinach. I swallow a bite that has turned sour on my tongue and reach up, napkin in hand, to wipe my face. I clear my throat and open my mouth when my escort shoots me a stern, long, reproachful look. She shimmies a bit in her seat, swallowing and clearing her throat in turn.

“Mayor Turner, may I ask you how it is you have such lovely oranges in the height of winter?” Veridia says. I roll my eyes. No one from the Capitol knows anything, especially not about labor. I want to rip her from her seat, smack her, scream in her face that oranges grow in the  _ fucking _ winter. But I don’t. I just take another small bite of food and chew until it’s nothing but flavorless mush. 

“Well,” the Mayor responds, pausing to swallow and wipe his mouth on his napkin. His tone brightens as he begins a long-winded speech about greenhouses, climate, the seasonal difference between this part of Panem and the Capitol, deeply hidden in the mountains. I groan internally and return to my salad, wishing to be anywhere else. As my mind begins to drift, I look across the table to the young girl who resembles so heartily the child that was killed in the bloodbath of The Games. She stares me down, not eating, but looking at me in such an intense way I can almost feel her fury emanating across the table. Her smile has dropped now her father is otherwise occupied. I look away from her, startled by the ferocity of her gaze. 

“I knew her. I knew all of them.” The girl interrupts her father's rambling speech. Her voice is light, as though talking about the weather, but I can see in her eyes she is all spit and fire. In this moment I realize she’s much older than I had originally thought she was. Her face is hollow and her eyes are deep set, dark circles surrounding them. She looks closer to my age than a child. She continues with the same light, airy tone. “They were good people, and they died, and we’re just sitting here talking about oranges.” She shoves her chair back and storms out of the room, throwing her napkin on the floor as she goes. I’d never seen someone act that way before, especially not someone of the upper class. Her heels click across the tiled floor, disappating and eventually fading into the uneasy silence. 

The mayor sits for a moment, stunned, eyes wide - a blush rises up his cheeks. “I am, oh goodness, I am so sorry about Rose. She’s not usually that way.” He excuses himself, and two Peacekeepers follow him out of the room. His wife smiles at all of us in a small, meek way.

“Well, I suppose I should escort you all to the train. Thank you very much for coming tonight.” she says, lips and fingers trembling. 

The walk out to the train, which is stationed just behind the mayor’s house, is a short but tense one. The sound of Veridia’s clicking heels and the Peacekeepers stomping boots has me shaking in an almost uncontrollable fury. I look over at my escort, who I have to keep reminding isn’t even my escort anymore; she clutches a small leather bag between in her hands, close to her body. She looks like a chicken when she walks - too upright, without enough sway in her steps. I slam onto the train, ignoring the cameras trained on me. No use giving the impression that I’m happy about my situation, not that it matters much. The Capitol already loathes me for my win. 

I sink onto a bed that has been changed since I was on the train but four hours ago, still fully dressed. The feathery quilt is a different pattern now, too bright for sleep, yet I sink underneath it, flask clenched too tightly in my hand. I drink long, deep pulls, and wait for the sweet alcohol to lull me into sleep. It doesn’t come immediately, eluding me even as my desperate conscious chases it. Finally the tendrils take hold of me, and I’m pulled into blissful darkness. 

* * *

“Thirty seconds to launch.”  

I look to my stylist, who nods and gestures me a little to energetically into my tube. My stomach hurts. I try to remember my plan, but my brain is fogged with fear and no sleep and a hangover so deep my eyes burn even at the artificial light. I step into the tube and await its slow ascent. 

“Ten seconds.”

I stare down at shoes that contour to my feet, not quite the boots from home; these are stronger, thicker, have more grip. They almost stick to the slip-proof surface of the elevation platform I stand on. Slowly, it begins to rise. I kneel down, feeling sick rising in my throat. The last thing I need is to throw up in this closed tube. The chute opens and bright yellow sunlight streams onto me from above. I stand just before reaching the top, shielding my eyes from the light of the Arena. I blink rapidly, trying to clear them, to make sense of what I’m seeing. Then it’s there, and I’m stunned by it.

The Cornucopia is bigger than anything I had ever seen, a massive structure that is surrounded by almost fifty platforms, all bringing up children and almost-adults of different heights and builds and - with some - terrifying strength. I see Maysilee standing just four people away from me, shaking with fear. She catches my eye and jerks her head just slightly. I jerk my head in the direction of the other two from twelve slowly enough to make it look almost natural. She nods imperceptibly. We stare at the giant, gold horn, filled to the brim with things that, from this distance, I can barely make out. Usually the tributes are closer, the Cornucopia smaller - but now, with 48 of us in the mix, they’ve changed the lay out, spread us further out from the bowl of this horn. I look around us; we stand in a meadow, shimmering, almost pearlescent. I squint; there is a mountain in the distance, tip submerged in bright, white clouds. To the west is more of the same, shimmering field. To the north, a forest which leads to the mountain, the tips of the trees swaying in the wind that blows through them and into the plain. It’s sickly sweet, turning my stomach and making me dizzy. I turn my head slightly. Just to my right, tall, thick grasses that scream to be hidden in. 

“Ten.” 

I recount the plan in my head. 

“Nine.”

The plan me and Maysilee had thought of on the roof the night before. 

“Eight.” 

Grab the other members of Twelve -

“Seven.”

together, try to get something - anything from the Cornucopia -

“Six.”

and run -

“Five.”

don’t die -

“Four.”

don’t fight - 

“Three.”

don’t even make eye contact with each other -

“Two.”

just grab one thing, something, anything -

“One.”

and - my mind goes blank -

The gun goes off, a bang so loud it rings in my ears, and I bolt off my platform so fast I feel my feet catching in the shining grass. These shoes were not made for fast travel, but for long. I keep going, swinging my arms hard to keep myself balanced. Robert is next to me in an instant, but I see Annabelle rooted to the spot on her platform, crouched with her hands over her head. I can hear her screaming, but make a beeline for the Cornucopia. 

“HAYMITCH!” Maysilee is pulling Annabelle off the platform, sprinting away, running from the Careers and the Bloodbath, and me. I look to her, taking my eyes off the Cornucopia just long enough for a tall Career to throw all his weight into me and knock me breathless, off my feet, and sprawling into the shining grasses below me. I scramble away, Robert dragging me up with him, and turn. We dead sprint away from the Cornucopia into the tall grass; my legs are burning and screaming at me, but I ignore them and push harder. It covers me up to my shoulders, Robert just above his head. Maysilee is crouched fifty feet in, a tired yet stern look on her face. “What the FUCK were you thinking?!” she whispers, but it feels like a yell. I shake my head, mouth opening and closing, no words coming out. I’m not hungover anymore, that’s for damn sure. 

“I was just- I was trying- the Cornucopia- our-” I’m stuttering, out of breath. Maysilee’s blue eyes are boring into my own grey ones; her face is red and she’s breathless too, but she looks angry. “I was just trying to get the plan done.” 

“Annabelle couldn’t get off the platform. We were never gonna get to the Cornucopia, Mitch.” Maysilee looks over at Annabelle, whose face is slick with tears, trying to muffle her sobs with her hand. “God- would you just shut up?” Maysilee turns and pushes through the grass. 

* * *

We take turns watching for a while at the divide between the tall grass and the empty stretch of field. We wandered before finding ourselves back at the plain that holds the Cornucopia, tired, hungry, and having listened to the Bloodbath cannon blasts. They still rang in my head. Which eighteen children had died? Who had come away victorious? Were we the only district that was still together? I can see the Careers from my place stationed at watch, yet I’m too nervous to move out subtly to count them. The darker it gets, the more I want to move into the woods. The woods are where it’s safe, where I’d always felt safest with James, with Maggie, even… my girl. I looked back to where Robert and Annabelle lay together, almost sleeping. Maysilee has her eyes trained on me, and I look at her, smiling.

“What?” she mouths, crossing her brows. I suppose smiling isn’t the proper response to the situation I was currently in, but the harder and longer I look at her, the more beautiful she becomes. I shake my head and look away, trying to think harder of Evie. A memory fogs over my vision as I look out at the Cornucopia, and I close my eyes; anything is better than here.

_ “Look, Haymitch, I see the way you look at Maysilee. Why haven’t you talked to her yet?” _

_ “Evie, you’re my girl.”  _

_ “No, Mitch, I’m not. We’re just friends, remember?”  _

_ “Ha, alright.”  _

_ “That’s what you wanted before this Reaping! You’re scared you’ll be drawn or I’ll be drawn and we’ll be alone, isn’t that what this is?”  _

_ “Evie, shut up, alright? Just friends, got it.”  _

_ “Plus, you’ve always loved Maysilee. You never stay when she’s with Maggie, you’ve never even spoken to her. It’s like you’re afraid.” _

_ “I’m not afraid of shit.”  _

_ “Then fucking do something! Stop leaving me in the lurch and just do something. With her or me or whatever!”  _

_ Evie storms out of my bedroom. I hear the front door slam, hard and loud against its wooden frame. I lay back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. _

A hand on my leg brings me back. “Haymitch, are you okay?” Maysilee asks, her voice barely audible. I look at her, eyes stinging with unshed tears and shrug. 

“We’re gonna die here, Maysi.” I say, bringing my hand to rest on hers. “I don’t think I’ve ever been less okay.” 

Maysilee nods and sighs. “Let’s move, the Careers are all sleeping. We can slip down to the edge of the grass and cut across behind the ‘copia.” she whispers, and then moves to wake the other two. “Remember,” she says, hushed. “Careful.” 

We move together towards the edge of the tall grass, and the hurriedly, and hunched over, sprint behind the Cornucopia, into the woods. We all spring upright fifty feet in and run as fast as we can, as hard as we can, until all we can see around us is woods. A stream trickles nearby, and Annabelle runs to it before Maysilee can grab her, dropping to her knees. 

“Annabelle, no, don’t!” Annabelle dips her hands in and moves them to her mouth, drinking deep and hard. 

“What?” she says, looking back. “It’s just water.” Maysilee’s expression turns sad, almost hurting. Annabelle shrugs and turns back to the water, drinking more and more. Maysilee shakes her head. Suddenly Annabelle freezes, back rigid. 

“Fuck.” I mutter as Annabelle coughs and sputters and falls face first into the running water, which turns red after it passes her. 

“What-” Robert starts.

“I thought, maybe here would be different but… Everything in this forest - everything in this Arena will kill you. The only food you will find will be at the Cornucopia. Which means I was wrong bringing us in here. Fuck!” Maysilee kicks a rock, which rolls away a little. I move towards her as she begins to break down. “What the fuck do we do?! The Careers will guard that Cornucopia until-” 

“Let’s break up.” says Robert, a little fearfully. 

“What?” she says.

“What?” I repeat. I draw myself closer to Maysilee, trying to pull her away from where Annabelle’s body lay, motionless. Robert steps towards us, breathing quickly and deeply. 

“Look,” he says, voice shaking. “We’re the smallest district, with the least experience… The best thing for us would be to hide on our own.” He pauses. “Just, you know, for a bit!” I glance at Maysilee, then back at Robert, and release her hand. Taking a few steps, I begin to nod. 

“Okay,” I say, drawing myself inward. “Okay. We split up. But we don’t turn on each other.” Robert nods. “I like this kid’s style.” I say. Maysilee looks at me, her expression unreadable but her eyes full of betrayal. 

“Sure, alright.” she says. “Good luck.” With that, she bolts away, and is soon lost in the trees. My heart is pounding in my chest. Have I made a mistake? Have I hurt the only person who was really on my team? I turn to Robert and extend a hand, swinging it down last minute as I change my mind. 

“Well, bye kid. See you around, I hope.” I turn and begin to walk away. Robert’s footsteps follow me, and I stop, turning back around. He stops too, ten meters from me. “This doesn’t seem like splitting up.”

“Look, I just- I didn’t want that… girl holding us back.”

“How old are you?” I say, eyes narrows and mouth screwed up to keep from laughing. “That girl could kill you without you even knowing you were dying.” Robert’s eyes widen and I really do laugh this time. “Look, leave me alone. If we’re all gonna go hide, I’m gonna do it on my own.” 

Robert moves suddenly, surprising me with his quickness and agility - though, I watched him train in the Capitol, so I’m unsure why the movement catches me so off guard. He has me on my back, hands wrapped around my throat in a second. My heart is in my stomach and my stomach is in my balls, and my hands lay motionless on the ground beside me. 

“You’re stronger than me, and bigger than me, but not faster. I have a plan to get food and weapons from the Careers, and you’re gonna help me, got it?” Robert says, pushing harder onto my throat. I am stronger than him, and I know this when I reach up and wrench his hands off me, throwing him back onto the ground. The air is knocked out of him in a huff and a groan. 

“Good luck, kid.” I say. “Try to attack me again, and I’ll fucking kill you.” Robert stands, a hand on his chest. He turns his back on me and begins to walk away. I watch him from my spot on the ground and think, hard. A dangerous, reckless, small and fast twelve year-old was the last thing I needed to keep track of in the games. My heart speeds up, thrumming an uneven tattoo in my chest as I realize my only option. He had to die. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please give it a bookmark, a kudo, or a comment - subscribe if you want to stay updated when new chapters arrive.  
> If you want to see more of my work, please click the username at the beginning of the story. Thanks again!


End file.
